It's the aching, deep in my belly.
I'm not sure why we bend to the whims of the world. She's a terrible lover, she has no shame.

She spits on who she pleases, dragging us into her terrible stories. She pulls us along and teases us into believing she is the most beautiful woman, the only woman we should ever want.

Her fruit is bitter, and I am sure she has no intentions of holding me after I fall. But I have followed her, in want of her hand, in want of her touch. I have plead for her faithfulness, begged for her mercy and patience. Haughtily she consents, blends my pleas into praises and twists my words into promises I should never have spoken.

I am ill, the bitterness has no sweet aftertaste. I am left wrecked, weary and bent, eyes low to the ground.





An angry woman wrote wrecked words to me today. Her despair was laden with all the bitter the world had bestowed to her. Her curses dripped the same lies she must have been told. They fell hard, they stung and pierced all the soft parts I have held onto. But I ache for her, she's been betrayed as we all have. By false promises and sickly sweet words, she's finally had truth thrust in her face as the lady of the world's stories wear thin.

But she's holding onto those stories, wrapping herself in them. I know they seem comforting, but they won't last. And one day, she'll wake up, as I have, naked of them and sick with shame at their power.

I'm still learning how to feel clothed without them. It's a long story and it isn't easy, and I'm sorry for her, and I'm sorry the world is a fickle lover, and I'm sorry we all have to wade through her lies.




I'm awake, as I have been many nights before, sick and alive with the truth at my side and my shame following behind me. My words are churning in my stomach, wrapped around my dreams and reality. Fighting one another, fighting the world's words. I am sick against her; I am angry at her. I will live with her no more, she can trail at my heels and beg for my hand. But the tables have turned.